


Smoke and Mirrors

by helianskies



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/F, Friendship/Love, Implied Relationships, Memories, Self-Reflection, Short One Shot, Smoking, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26431465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helianskies/pseuds/helianskies
Summary: Amaia has an affinity for cigarette smoke, amongst other things—such as blonde Italian women, struggling to let people in, or really, really long silences.
Relationships: Female South Italy/Female Spain (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Smoke and Mirrors

Amaia turns her gaze away from the setting sun and instead to the smoke wisps trailing from the cigarette between her fingers. She likes the way they almost dance up towards the sky—she almost likes it as much as the way they tickle and burn in her lungs.

Really, she considers herself an addict to _that_ as opposed to an addict to the nicotine; it's easier for her, she has found, to live without the moreish drug than to live without the sensation. The way her chest seems to fill up with a soft electricity with the first drag from a new cigarette, the way the hot smoke leaves a subtle irritation in her throat… 

Nicotine doesn't calm her or soothe her; the smoke does. It wouldn't be the first time something painful has drawn her in like so (but this is the only time she would admit to a sort of masochism, a secret pleasure...).

"What are you thinking about?" a voice says from the patio door. Amaia doesn't acknowledge it in any way. She brings the cigarette back to her lips and returns her eyes to the sun. "Come on," Valentina rattles on, "you only smoke when you're feeling nostalgic or angry. So which is it?"

The Spaniard exhales as her blonde peer takes a seat on the other patio chair. Between them is the table, a half-empty bottle of beer, and a rather heavy silence. It isn't that Amaia doesn't like Valentina (if she didn't, Valentina wouldn't be in her home, on her patio, in her bubble). She just doesn't like the question and its implications. _Nostalgic or angry?_ Why isn't she allowed to feel anything else? It's not like she doesn't smile, or laugh, or cry. (And it's not like Valentina hasn't witnessed her do as such; part of her recognises that it may just be small-talk, a way to make conversation, even if it does... hurt. Ever so slightly).

"Nostalgic," Amaia replies to save her the extra effort, however. There is little use explaining herself; she's already as clear as spring water to the world. She has been for centuries. Why change now?

"Are you feeling that way about anything in particular?"

 _Out of convenience_. Amaia hums a flat note. "Take a guess."

"Please don't tell me it's something sappy and sentimental," the Italian remarks, a laugh barely slipping past her lips. Amaia likes how light and youthful it sounds. "I'm not sure I'm mentally prepared for that."

A joke, of course. Valentina has known Amaia too long, she knows her too well. It may even be mutual. But the Spaniard feels that Val is absolutely mentally prepared for her 'sappiness and sentiments', because if she weren't, she wouldn't still be there. She wouldn't be with Amaia, and Amaia—Amaia, who has trust issues, who struggles with people, who hates to be close to others in general both physically and emotionally—would not have let her stay.

It almost makes her smile. _Smile._ Not much does, but Valentina surely holds the record for making her smile the most out of everyone and anyone she has ever known. Call it a weakness. Call _her_ a weakness.

Amaia flicks the remnants of ash from the butt of her cigarette and takes another drag. As she exhales, she says: "It's nothing important." It's adamant, assertive. "Wait until you're my age. You'll understand."

"I hope so," Valentina replies. Recently manicured nails (Amaia likes the shade of red—though she _is_ the one who picked it out) tap gently on the glass top of the table, and the blonde lightly sighs, a smile tugging on her lips. _Now who's feeling sentimental?_ "I also hope you'll still be here if I ever reach your age…"

"You'd wish that much suffering on me so happily?"

" _No_ , because it doesn't _have_ to be full of suffering, Papaya."

She almost wants to say, _suffering is all I'll know if you call me that for the next millennia_ , but she's not convinced by the notion. Valentina is right. It doesn't have to be painful, living doesn't have to be hard, and she certainly shouldn't let a nickname (that, at times, she may even find endearing) get in the way. _I hope you'll still be here._ She's said those same words once, a very, very long time ago...

Still, having someone say that to her is somewhat unsettling. Amaia (Amaia, Papaya— _creative_ ) doesn't know if she _wants_ to be around when the 3000's begin. She's sure very _few_ of the older nations do. Something inside of her—something that makes her feel uneasy, unsteady on her feet even though she is seated—tells her that it won't be the case. She may be indifferent, impartial, but her pride would forever be her worst enemy; frankly, Spain will not be so easily wiped from the maps.

A hand extends across the table. No words are spoken, but Amaia knows what it means, what it's saying. As more smoky wisps rise into the evening air, she reaches her free hand out and lays it gently on top of Valentina's. She has yet to hold her hand properly. Perhaps because she fears attachment more than she fears death; or because she doesn't want to seem weak. Weak in the face of… what is it she'd said? Ah, _nostalgia._ There is no need, Amaia tells herself, to make it seem as though she _needs_ her hand to be held at that precise moment in time.

 _I hope you'll still be here, when I get to be as big and strong as_ **_you_ ** _are! I want you to see, I want you to be proud of me!_

No, she doesn't need her hand to be held. She needs nothing but the silence that has blossomed between them once more, so she can focus on other, more trivial things.

 _I'll prove it to you. You don't think I can do it, but I can, and I_ **_will_ ** _! And then you'll see_ —y _ou aren't as untouchable as you think!_

She needs nothing but the cool breeze on her face, and the serenity of the view of the Sierra, the great mountains in the distance.

 _I hope you're watching this from up there, and I hope you're proud. Because I'm more powerful, more revered and far greater than you had ever_ **_dreamed_ ** _to be!_

She needs nothing but Valentina, whether in person or in spirit, to be a gentle reminder of how a callous soul can soften over time, if only for her own peace of mind.

 _I'll never be like you. I'll be better. I'll be_ **_better_** _._

And she needs nothing but a cigarette, a matchstick, and that same bitter smoke dancing in her lungs and throat—cleansing, relieving. Like a breath of fresh air on the waves of a big, big, _big_ blue sea.

**Author's Note:**

> Tada. Hints of 2P!Nyo!Spamano, mixed in with a heavy dash of.. mess, really. 
> 
> What's going on in Amaia's head..? Even I can't be quite sure. She's a ball of angst and frays, but at least she has Val.
> 
> On a side note, I move to Spain for my placement in just over a week. I'm terrified. But we good :') Hope you're all staying safe out there, and being more responsible than our smoke-and-silence addict Amaia!


End file.
